Snowglobes of the Mojave
by Jess Gulbranson
Summary: Each chapter highlights one of the collectibles snowglobes found in New Vegas. I've done my best to stay true to the lore, and highlight plenty of little details and lesser known characters from the game, but of course some speculations and OCs creep in. The stories are set in different time periods ranging from Prewar to concurrent with the events of FNV.
1. Goodsprings

GOODSPRINGS

It was a funny thing.

Junior was gone, and the white paint had run out. Ginny put the finishing touches on her second "KEEP OUT" sign, barely thinking about her letters, leaving them large and crude. A child's writing. She'd certainly blubbered like a damn kid, but only earlier. The waterworks had dried up.

Maybe it wasn't so funny, once you thought about it. The paint had just been one of the things she and Junior had done for caps- or shelter, or chems, or food. Every so often she'd find a particular type of scrap metal on her scavenging runs and bring a pocketful home. Junior would take a file to it, and mix the powder with old recycled oil, a few other odds and ends, and there it was. White paint. Ginny hadn't been on many scavenging runs lately, and Junior hadn't been doing much of anything since he'd taken sick.

Ginny chucked her improvised paintbrush down the hill, where it tumbled out of sight among the scrub and radscorpion burrows. She wiped her hands on her overalls and turned back to Junior's freshly filled grave.

"Whiskey Snakes Jr., you son of a bitch." The tears had all gone so she allowed herself a laugh. Whiskey hadn't been Junior's given name- it was Jack- but he'd inherited it from his father. Presumably he'd also inherited his illness from his father, who'd taken sick years ago in much the same way. Whiskey Snakes Senior had lingered painfully for a long time before the tumors finally took his life.

If she could see it, Junior certainly had been able to, and he'd had plenty of time to think about it, alone in their trailer while she'd foraged for enough to keep them alive. She'd come home today from the springs and he'd been gone. She knew exactly where he'd gone, and what happened.

Junior had always joked about dying, but he never used the words "dying" or "death". He had always talked about "giving his body to Mother Earth," or more frequently "becoming food for radscorpions." Nobody got killed by radscorpions these days unless they were stupid or really unlucky- or did it on purpose. The hard part for Ginny to think about was a brief morbid image of Junior crawling his way up the hill to the Goodsprings Cemetery. It had hurt him just to get out of bed. But walking? Impossible.

At some point he must have laid down in a good spot for a grave to be dug, and rubbed himself with a paste of herbs and rotten carp from Lake Meade. It was a bait recipe he'd learned from some tribals they'd stayed with temporarily, and was supposed to irresistably attract edible critters. It had done that, of course, and then some. The top of the hill had not only been crawling with scorpions, but also swarming with bloatflies. Before she could even get close to Junior's body she'd had to go back to the trailer and get the plasma pistol they'd saved for a rainy day- or in case the Gangers from up the way decided to do more than give Goodsprings a squeeze for some caps.

While she was there she cleaned out their trailer, down to the last bit of twisted wire. It had all gone to the municipal scrap pile, and hopefully folks would take what they needed. Ginny didn't need any of it. Maybe it would give ol' Lazy Pete something to do. Salvage was a lot better in the area than he believed, but he'd rather sit in his stinky old chair than put in the effort. She was going to miss their old trailer, just on the other side of the cistern from the Saloon.

Ginny had cleared everything out, but there was one thing she hadn't dumped in the scrap pile. She dug it out now and tossed it on Junior's grave, among the big rocks she'd piled on to keep vermin drawn by the bait from digging Junior up. It was a "snowglobe" as Whiskey Senior had called it when he gave it to them as a wedding gift, right after they had settled here. Some prewar souvenir showing a smiling idiot visiting Goodsprings. The bits of fake snow swirled inside violently from hitting the ground, and quickly settled as Ginny watched.

Not long after they'd gotten it, some shifty dude who said he was a Mojave express courier came by offering to buy it. For an obscene amount of caps. Said a wealthy collector was looking for them and willing to pay big- well, big for the lowly folks outside of New Vegas. She supposed it would only have been a day's work for a cardsharp or highroller.

They hadn't sold, as they did pretty well for themselves in trade, and didn't need much. Junior figured with how fragile a thing it was it might be unique- the only "snowglobe" of its kind, maybe. Something like that had its own value- the sort of value that could be passed down to your kids. Well, there wasn't ever going to be a Whiskey Snakes the Third, so she left it. That was it. That was all. The whole thing was done.

Well, almost done.

Early, Ginny had killed the flies and scorpions, and dropped the little energy pistol there where she stood on the road up the hill. Someone would find it- Chet or Sunny, maybe. They could put it to good use. She had buried Junior and rolled all the bug corpses down the far side of the hill, where nobody went.

She thought about those bug corpses now. They were going to draw the attention of the giant scorpions that scoured that part of the valley, and those big boys weren't anything to trifle with. Repainting the "KEEP OUT" signs had been her good deed for the day, Ginny supposed. With their home and possessions scattered, and Junior buried, that meant that there wasn't anything left to do.

"Goodbye, Junior."

It was a funny thing. Nobody got killed by radscorpions these days unless they were stupid or really unlucky- or did it on purpose. Ginny walked past her "KEEP OUT" signs, down the hill towards the big scorpion nests.


	2. Mt Charleston

Margo loved seeing new things- even though over two hundred years of life there were very few things that were new. It had become obvious to her that being a ghoul was a sort of tightrope balance. You could cling to the person you were before the transformation, or you could change and grow. She'd chosen the latter, and kept her brain healthy when so many of her fellow zombies had gone feral, scrabbling in the radioactive muck and attacking passers-by.

Of course there was a price to be paid for her approach to immortality- Margo wasn't her real name, and she couldn't remember it regardless. Every so often- once a decade, or so- she'd drop what she was doing, change her name and find a new job, a new life. Just to keep things fresh. She'd been Rosie when she was a mechanic, Kat when she was a bandit, Maude when she was a madam and Lulu when she was a whore. It was always easier to uproot yourself when in some small way it was another person's life you were leaving behind.

Now she was a caravan guard, and had been for just about long enough.

Not that she minded spending time with Klute the trader, and the rest of them, but even that was a clue that it was almost time to move on, since half the time she didn't care what her fellow guards' names were.

But Margo was glad she'd stuck around long enough to go on this trip. She got to see snow.

Normally the caravan routes stuck to right around New Vegas, since the NCR troopers made things a little safer. They were good business too, buying chems and sundries their quartermasters couldn't or wouldn't supply. At least when the troopers hadn't already pissed their caps away at one of the casinos.

A prospector friend of Klute's had mentioned something interesting, though. The old ski lodge up on Mt. Charleston was inhabited now. By super mutants. Friendly super mutants.

Margo just had to see that.

Klute had been hesitant at first- what would super mutants even buy? But Margo had traveled extensively and she knew the answer to that. Not chems or sundries. They liked trinkets and toys. At least, the less bloodthirsty ones did, clinging to some innocent memory of being human. So they'd loaded up on all the Moon Monkey toys, broken gadgets and fashion magazines they could find, and hit the old road northwest out of New Vegas.

Between the idea of trading with super mutants and the novelty of snow in the mountains, everyone in their little party had been jumpy, even though Margo had assured everyone that as a ghoul she'd be able to talk to super mutants no problem if things went south.

That ended up not being an issue. They'd been met at the gates of the old lodge by a couple of- yes, friendly- super mutant guards, and another mutant who was some sort of mayor. He called himself Marcus, and although a little terse, was soft spoken and welcoming. Apart from a vague warning not to "stare at the Nightkin" they were free to come and go.

Klute and the others shed their nervousness soon enough and set up a makeshift tent between a brahmin pen and a slightly radioactive pond, and Margo found herself with free time to explore.

There wasn't much to see outside, apart from the piles of crunchy snow and cool breeze, a welcome change from the dusty heat of the rest of the Mojave. She decided to check out the lodge, and once she stepped through the big wooden doors into the dim quiet of the interior, she realized she'd been here before. A long time ago.

When she'd been human. Before she'd been Margo. Or any of the others.

The lodge sprawled around her, rhythmic creakings from upstairs betraying the presence of ambling super mutants. In front of her was a reception desk, thick with dust that covered the polished burl surface and the defunct terminal, and...

She stepped forward and wiped the dust off a small, round thing, then picked it up and gave it a shake.

A snowglobe. Not only had she been here before, she'd played with this very snowglobe before. She'd been a little girl, and her mom and her mom's boyfriend- a seemingly nice guy who had nevertheless been a little scary- were checking in to the lodge for a "vacation". Adult stuff like hotel check-ins were always boring, and the little Vault Boy in his scarf seemed so cheery.

A lifetime of exposure to the bullshit of human existence gave Margo a different perspective on those memories. Her mom's boyfriend had seemed very insistent. Desperate even. And the timing. The goddamned timing. You know what else had happened that week?

The war ended. And with it the world.

At first nothing much had changed at the lodge. Most of the guests fled, but the staff and a few others stayed, since there was plenty of food and water. Her mom had spent most of her time with the boyfriend in their suite, "talking". Margo knew what that meant now. Her mother had problems- chem problems, like a lot of people, and she guessed now that maybe the boyfriend had helped out with that. In exchange for... other things.

She'd spent most of her time in the kitchen with a red-faced, chainsmoking chef. She'd started off calling him sir and asking politely for healthy dinners, like a good little girl, but he'd insisted that she yell at him for treats.

"Cookie, gimme some grub!" That was what he'd insisted on, and after her dinner she'd had her pick of the treats, Fancy Lads or Potato Crisps. Adult Margo knew that the chef had probably seen what was going on with her mom and was trying to keep her safely distracted. She wondered if maybe he'd had a daughter elsewhere. Who hadn't made it, perhaps.

Raised voices distracted her from her reverie and she replaced the snowglobe in its creche of dust. Margo followed the ruckus into a room off to the side of the lobby, and she could hear the thumping of super mutants not far behind her.

She entered what appeared to be a laboratory, electronic machines and wires and beakers everywhere. Margo didn't know anything about science, but had always been curious. The noise that had drawn her was one of her group- Bolan, a guard who was just barely more civilized than the Fiends he'd grown up with. Bolan was busy shaking someone by the collar- another human, a wiry old man with a scholarly look.

"Listen, doc, you're telling me you don't have a Med-X or three you can spare? That trip did hell on my back."

"I told you, you fool, I'm a scientist, not-"

"Bolan." She knew even with a low voice her ghoul throat would make it sound menacing. Bolan and the old man both looked at her, and Bolan sneered.

"Mind your business, you zombie c-"

She didn't let him finish the word, or let him finish going for his little 10mm. Margo drew her revolver- a big old hogleg from when she'd been "Ruth the Ranger"- and sent a bullet through Bolan's arm. No difficulty.

He screamed, of course, preventing him from saying anything else that would piss Margo off. He stumbled past her and out of the room, and out of the lodge.

"Well," she croaked, "I guess my contract is up."

The old man sighed, and chuckled. "Thank you for that. I'm Dr. Henry. You're a regular Calamity Jane!"

Margo beamed back. "I like that. It's a nice name."

He looked at her quizzically. "Jane?"

"Calamity."

Dr. Henry nodded, and Margo felt an enormous hand touch her shoulder with surprising delicacy. She turned and looked up into the face of Marcus, the mutant mayor.

"Saw what you did. We're a bit protective of our Doctor Henry. Helps us." Marcus looked back towards the lodge doors. "Suppose that's a problem for you. Can smooth things over with your friend Klute- he likes the caps we're giving him for worthless junk. You can stay here for now, if you like."

Margo thought about the snow, the snowglobe, the chef, her mother... then smiled at the man and the super mutant.

"I'd like that. It's about time for a fresh start anyway." Marcus gave her another surprisingly soft pat on the shoulder before lumbering away.

Dr. Henry came up to her and gave her a warm handshake as soon as she put her pistol back in its holster.

"Thank you again. Tell me... do you have any experience with neuroscience or biochemistry?"

She looked around at the chemicals and machinery. She'd figured out harder things. "Not yet?"

Dr. Henry released a short bark of a laugh and gave her hand one more shake before releasing it.

"Well, in that case... welcome to Jacobstown, Calamity!"


	3. Nellis AFB

The problem with being Keeper of the Story was that it also made you keeper of the lie, and Don had been having trouble with that for a while. As he stumbled home from the mess hall, he speculated that keeping secrets was unhealthy, and like many failings of virtue tended to shorten the lifespan. Great. Great!

At a more casual level, the secret he kept wasn't just his own. All the elders- Mother Pearl, Loyal, Raquel, a few others in positions of responsibility. They all knew that despite what everyone was taught in the schoolhouse, and drilled into your consciousness every day, was that savages- or, "outsiders" if you were feeling polite- were allowed onto the grounds of Nellis all the time. Where did the average Boomer think that delicious whiskey came from?

Of course, only a few itinerant merchants could be trusted enough for this duty, and they only met outside the gates by an old train tunnel, but still... it tickled him that Mother Pearl was essentially in charge of a black market, but it didn't stay funny for long.

Sharing knowledge of this secret was one of the foundations of his relationship with the young man who ran the munitions depot, Maurice. Well, that and Maurice's absolutely delicious face and body. Either way, after an assignation behind a hangar Don found himself relaxed, the only time that was true except for whiskey time. He supposed that wasn't going to last, either. Don couldn't be the only one with eyes for the gorgeous munitions manager. Loyal's assistant Jack had been acting strange for a while, acting secretive, mooning over someone he wouldn't admit. Fine. If it ended, it ended. Let the young be with the young.

Don struggled with the door to his room, and felt a further pang through the buzz he'd managed to acquire. It wasn't even really his room, it was a museum. In some sense, the history of the Boomers, the story, the room- it kept him, instead of the other way 'round. And then there was the rest of it.

Once he managed to get the handle turned and threw himself inside, Don was confronted again with what his life amounted to. A quonset hut with the barest of furnishings, a quonset hut that was itself just a hollow showcase for the physical manifestation of the Story: a crude mural that covered the entirety of one wall.

He hated that mural. To think that it encompassed the entirety of the Story, that was a notion that prickled. Don had been trained- a million years ago- as an a archivist, back in the vault. The Story had been born there, kept in the proper way, on paper and on holotapes and recited to rapt audiences. Shit, had it really been fifty years? Fifty years since the more... passionate dwellers of his vault- most of the dwellers, actually- had taken their armaments and moved on, here to Nellis.

As depicted in the stupid mural.

Don had offered to repaint the mural- he had decent hand with a paintbrush. Mother Pearl had declined. Something about "raw authenticity". Mother Pearl, whose cheescake photos from back in the vault had somehow made their way into the mens' barracks, wank fodder for a couple generations of horny boomers. Not only a deft hand with a paintbrush, Don had actually _seen_ real murals. More than the average Boomer would ever see.

Maybe since he'd just been an teenager and apprentice archivist he'd been expendable, but in the early days after they'd first taken Nellis, he'd gone with all the expeditions to various military installations. Not just the Hawthorne Depot and Area 2, as officially recorded in the Story, but also S4 and Area 51b. As the years passed he'd had parley with the Brotherhood of Steel- well, a fairly intimate parley with one of their Scribes- and discovered that they ran similar expeditions. They were more interested in robots and lasers than mortars and rockets, but very similar. He'd met a group of tribals that were themselves archivists, one and all, and though they dressed like they were barely out of a cave, their "cave paintings" rivalled the precision of the prewar blueprints he occasionally found.

He'd stayed with the Nevada Rangers for a bit, in their Citadel, where they had a proper museum, with a proper mural- "The Cycle of Man," as it was called. It might have made less sense than the Boomer mural- it had people riding monsters and marrying monkeys- but it was a true piece of art, not a child's fingerpainting.

He'd been a child when he first apprenticed to the previous Keeper- Wilhelm, who was actually the first Keeper. A stuffy old bastard, but at least one with respect for history and art. He'd resisted the growing narrative of the Nellis Boomers even though he was loyal to them, and perhaps Don had inherited some of that tendency. Maybe more than some. And now he'd been given his own apprentice, Pete. Around the same age he'd been when he first started training as an archivist, but without the advantage of the holotapes and computers.

Don looked away from the stupid mural and around the hut that was his museum and his home. Pretty soon it would be Pete's home, if he had to guess. Don had been drinking more. Fretting over the secret. Coughing. Blood on the pillow. How would Pete decorate the museum? Would it be full of toys and comic books? Would someone have to yell at him to clean it up?

Don had been careless lately. Drinking more. Finding ways to let slip little nuggets of his story- the real Story- in sloppy conversations in the mess hall. Nobody cared if some savage traders brought whiskey or textiles or a stack of Cat's Paw mags. But the second half of the secret- the long, continuing history of Boomers _leaving_ Nellis, bringing back what little munitions and armaments they could, along with fragments of culture... and more. Where did new Boomers come from? Not through the front gates of Nellis. Little savage babies, sometimes in their confused tribal mothers' wombs.

He wasn't sure how people managed to reconcile all of that with the Story. Even when they didn't know all the details. The brain was resilient. Don was alive somehow despite how careless he was- with his mouth, with his body. He'd drink every drop he could get his hand on and then take a long walk around the deadly perimeter of Nellis. Fuck it.

Don sank back into his pillow and sighed. Eventually one of those walks would be too long. Whiskey and land mines didn't mix.


	4. Test Site

The Strip was positively packed with cars, so even though it was a few blocks too early General MacManus tapped his driver on the shoulder and hardly waited for the jeep to slow down before jumping out and hoofing it towards the Lucky 38. His dogrobber followed suit in a clumsier fashion, lugging a bag and briefcase.

MacManus was big and broad, and had never given a shit about people he didn't know, if it came down to it, so despite the crowd he was inside the casino within moments, snapping his aviators off and thrusting them backwards for Corporal Smythe to grab. When his glasses disappeared MacManus waved a paw of a hand at the liveried elevator boy, who dropped into a crisp bow and held the elevator door.

MacManus was on a mission, an important one. Of the two major projects he was working on, the first had ended early and the second was starting late. With that in play, he had managed- at great expense of money and mental effort- to carve out a teeny tiny fraction of vacation time for himself, and he was not going to hesitate at achieving it.

During the brief ride up he studiously avoided the elevator boy's attempts at pleasant conversation, dwelling instead for a moment on the difficulty at hand. The last project he'd have to put his stamp on was ludicrous- a monkey's job. A few of the eggheads kept wanting to tinker with the M42, adding blast shields and ammo variants. Which meant that he personally had ended up in the godforsaken desert south of Las Vegas at a makeshift observation deck, listening to the junior officers ooh and ah and quote Hindu scripture like it was the second coming of goddamned Trinity. He really pitied the poor grunt down there in the valley who had to nuke some cardboard targets from a grenade's throw away.

It was a waste of money, and he'd said so, but he put his stamp on it anyway to get the eggheads to shut up, but he'd taken his aide Colonel Tidewater aside to let him know that the budget for the project could be safely decimated. was out doing the legwork on the next project- some relatively practical idea about setting up newly built prisons, hospitals and such so that they could be quickly converted into useful military sites in the event regular bases were targets. Otherwise, he'd be here and there would be someone interesting to talk to.

MacManus felt the elevator slow as they neared the Presidential Suites, but he lashed out with a craggy finger in the elevator boy's face and waggled it very deliberately. The unfortunate lad blanched but made the right choice, ignoring whatver VIPs had called the elevator.

Here they were at one of the most important targets in MacManus' sight right now- the Lucky 38 Cocktail Lounge. He pushed out of the elevator before the door was barely opened, leaving his perpetually embarassed dogrobber to tip and console the elevator boy.

This was it. The Holy Grail. Shangri-la. There were better bars in Vegas, of course, and Robert House's taste in decorating would never match the Ultra Luxe, for example, but... MacManus peered through rills of cigarette smoke backlit by the sun through the tower's windows. The view. The thrice-damned view.

He made a quick circuit, taking it in. He didn't get to come in here often enough. The genius of this view, was that unless you got right up close and peered down, you couldn't see the filthy city of Las Vegas at all. Seated on his usual chair- which he regretfully bypassed for the moment- he looked out at the mountains, at the thin clouds as they were driven across the sunny sky. Soon enough. Unfortunately, business never ceased.

MacManus made a departure from his routine and sat down at the bar. He reached inside his jacket and removed his pipe- a scuffed, stubby Irish bulldog- and his tobacco, which he had made by Kramer's whenever he was in LA. It was a dark English blend, and he was sure that the smell of it straight from the pouch would keep anyone from sitting next to him. Once lit, though, it would be a smoke to rival any cathedral's incense.

The bartender limped over and discreetly handed him a shotglass full of matches. MacManus took them and began to pack and light his pipe without acknowledging the man. Once he was steadily puffing, he looked over and gave the bartender a smile.

"Thank you, Chet."

"My pleasure, General." He blinked a bit more than was necessary. The power of latakia. "What will it be this morning, sir?"

MacManus looked past him, behind the bar, and chuckled. The beer taps on display were a joke, the rube's idea of good beer and whiskey. Horowitz? Dirty Fenster? Jesus wept. House made a mint by catering to the poor schmucks who didn't know any better. But when dealing with an arrogant sonofabitch like House, of course it was a trap.

The only thing Robert House hated more than a rube was a poser. If you asked for some top shelf booze that wasn't shown, you'd be served it and made to feel like a king. But then the quality of service would plummet and your luck at the casino would disappear. Your punishment for putting on airs.

General Roderick MacManus was an arrogant sonofabitch as well, and ten years ago he'd made a sort of friendship with Robert House by escaping the trap the only possible way. He had cheated.

"The Satrap 1851, of course, Chet." It was his family's whisky, brewed for a short time and raved about by serious imbibers for some time, but discontinued before the Great War and never seen outside of Scotland. His first time at the Lucky 38 he'd asked for it, knowing they wouldn't have it. He'd endured the embarassment and apologies with a wry smile, but on his next visit there'd been a bottle of it waiting, as well as a discreet invitation up to the penthouse, to talk business.

Chet nodded and went to fetch the drink. MacManus tucked his tobacco pouch back into his jacket and almost relaxed.

His friendship with House had turned into quite the mutual arrangement, and he'd spent many a pleasant afternoon with the man, solving... well, some of the world's problems. At least until a couple years ago. House had always been eccentric, but at some point at least one of his gears had slipped, and he'd become a recluse. He didn't leave the penthouse and nobody was permitted in. They'd kept in touch over the defense network (a RobCo product, of course), but electronic letters were a pale substitute for the company of your peers.

"Your Satrap, sir." Chet brought the glass over to him like it was full of plutonium. Probably as expensive.

MacManus took a contemplative puff, before grabbing his pipe and using it to point vaguely... up. "Is... he taking visitors yet?"

"He is not, sir." It was quite a poker face. Chet's talents were wasted in this part of the Lucky 38. MacManus nodded with what he hoped was a reasonable expression, and without looking signalled for his dogrobber. The Corporal responded by swiftly slapping the briefcase on the bar and then stepping back into helpful distance.

MacManus snapped the catches open and reached inside for the souvenir snowglobe he'd had made for his friend. A little joke between the two of them. He set it down on the bar in front of Chet.

"Give this to Robert, with my regards, Chet."

"I will do, sir."

"Give Corporal Smythe a drink, please, Chet. Not the good stuff."

"Indeed, sir." MacManus grinned and crammed his pipe back in his mouth. He picked up his glass of whisky and stood up from the bar.

"I'll be in my chair. Admiring the view."


	5. Lonesome Road

scrabble scrabble

yes, one thought, many good scrabblings to find in the square cave, the square cave of the old ones

a good place to wait when on top of the world, out of the burning light, quiet enough to hear any little scrabble

one might dig through the many rocks to find a small scrabble or maybe a plaything of the old ones, dig in the red cracked rocks and gray powdery rocks that made up the square cave of the old ones, but there were many more things

it wasn't always easy for one to know what such things were- not rocks, exactly, or roots, or scrabbles, and strange to hold, fluttering and flapping like the wings of tiny small moon ones, when one dangled the thing from a claw

most of the old ones' things were hard and strange, soft things having long ago been eaten by a nibbling one, or desperate scrabbling one

one loved to look at a particular thing on the wall of the square cave, and one couldn't describe it- a frozen sight, a flat memory

the thing had many marks, some like worms and some like scratches, and the one who made those marks had left them all over, inside the fluttering strange things and on the walls and some of the playthings, but one did not care about those

one could look at the thing and see the face of an old one, and the face of a steel one

one heard a noise

the noise was harsh and loud in the quiet of the square cave of the old ones, and one could recognize it instantly- the red ones

the ones who first met the red ones thought the red ones were gods and ran- the red ones were covered in hard plates like the large pinching ones, and they carried magics that threw burning light or summoned small buzzing stinging things, but these killed

the queen had hissed her displeasure at the scared ones, but then laughed and spoke to every one, saying that these were no gods- not even old ones, who were the color of bone and sand, but

the queen spoke slow for slow ones, said these red ones were the color of a fresh scrabble because they were weak ones with skins already removed, to show the scrabble underneath, and no one should be scared, as the magics were no match for a prepared one, much less a pack of ones

for a long time the packs had hunted the red ones, who were stupid and loud, until one made a discovery in a hot green cave

a red one pinned by rocks, alive and squealing, and some ones had had a scrabble until their bellies were full, and very surprising

the red one squealed and squealed, but as the ones watched, the scrabbles came back

the packs did not need to hunt, so much, unless for playtimes

some ones said this red one had been a god, but the queen turned them to scrabbles in anger, then explained to remaining obedient ones that even this red one was no god

what god could squeal like that as it was scrabbled, what god could be scrabbled at all, and the queen cooed and preened one as she explained softly

one got bored sometimes

the square cave was good for a smart one to think and lurk and then hunt, and very good to trap stupid red ones, who were delicious under their scales, their tortured scrabbles softened by whatever had peeled them

clawing up the rocks piled to the top of the square cave of the old ones, one found a good spot to drop on the red ones and claw and bite, but then another louder sound, and one froze in place, in shadow

that roar, echoing against the rocks and the square cave of the old ones, and one could see the red ones cringe in fear, and begin throwing their burning light magics towards something one couldn't see though the glare

a tall clawed one

one slunk back down into the dark quiet of the square cave to wait for the battle to finish between the red ones and the tall clawed one

the square cave of the old ones was a good place to wait, to think, to play, the old ones had left many interesting things

once one had been desperate to scrabble, and had found a tasty glistening eyeball, and scrabbled it right up, feeling it crunch like the twisting shell of a slimy creeping one, but then one squealed

it was not scrabbles at all, and one looked closer in disappointment, seeing that the thing dripped bitter water and white bits, and in the center a tiny flat old one

one did not know where the plaything was now, it had been many times ago when one was small and slow and stupid, but one was large now, and fast, and smart

and most of all patient

one knew enough to wait in the cold quiet of the square cave of the old ones, amid the worms and scratches and rocks and playthings, wait for the battle to be over, wait then emerge and scrabble the winners

scrabble scrabble


	6. Big MT

Skinner could tell shit was about to go down- it always did when Doc Calis took a personal day and the X-13 crew were allowed to actually do some work for once. That of course meant that they got all their daily tasks done before lunchtime and dedicated the rest of the shift to a thorough dicking of the proverbial dog. Some people don't handle relaxation well.

Geraldine Kael was probably the smartest person who worked at X-13 but she chafed under Doc Calis' "leadership" and paradoxically chafed even worse when he was gone for the day. Only an hour into their shift and she had started pacing the catwalks around her station, clanging and stomping and muttering British epithets that Skinner assumed were profanity and not references to some inedible English cuisine.

He knew Calis relied on her, but still hated her for being competent. Not even that she was a competent woman, just competent period. The brass had headhunted her from the MI6 gadget division or something, and while the Mountain was theoretically a private research facility, the army paid most of the bills. Money talks.

So Kael was able to forego the expected desk time that the rest of them were mostly chained to and spend her time either in her lab downstairs or in the bowels of the facility tinkering with the holoframes or adjusting algorithms. She was good- too good. Every time she improved the efficiency of the computers, the other systems struggled to keep up. And usually crashed. Calis could rant and rave, but there wasn't much he could do other than take it out on the other eggheads.

Skinner could tell today was different, though. There had been an undercurrent of revolution for some time, everyone chafing under the abuse of Doc Calis to the point where some weren't going to be able to take it, restrictive contracts be damned. If anyone was going to spearhead that revolution successfully it would be Geraldine Kael, but Skinner wasn't sure if she'd make it until Calis came back.

Luckily, he had a plan.

Kael had buzzed by his desk three times already this morning, not for any particular reason. They weren't working on any projects together at the moment, and on the third pass she had stopped to throw a paperweight at one of the robobrains down in the test area. She had turned and looked Skinner right in the eyes, daring him to say anything. At last she cracked her thin-lipped smile.

"For testing purposes. You understand."

Skinner sighed. "You going to be able to make it through the day without your boyfriend, Kael?"

Her face flushed in anger momentarily. "Not likely. I have such a desperate ache..."

"I can see. You're practically swooning. Look..." He called after her as she turned to go. "I have an idea."

Kael lifted a dark eyebrow. "I'm very busy, Skinner."

"Horseshit. You're weeks ahead of us on everything. Well, weeks ahead of them. I'm a couple days ahead."

"Mr. Skinner, are you trying to seduce me?" He was poleaxed for a second, having thought nothing even remotely like that, then realized she was kidding. "I'm taking the piss, Skinner. Please go on."

"Right. All I'm saying is that since Calis is gone, and we're spinning our wheels research-wise until the rest of these nimrods catch up... we should have ourselves a little vacation. Take a pause for the cause. For..."

"Mental health reasons?"

"Mental health reasons. Yes."

"Let's go, then. You drive. I want to get well and truly plastered."

"It's a date. Well.."

"Skinner, not only am I out of your league, I'm playing an entirely different sport. And on the other team, to boot. So don't get any ideas."

"No, absolutely not. We're just a couple of work buddies out to get fucked up." He thought for a moment. "I suppose we might as well get started early."

Kael nodded, already shucking her labcoat onto the floor to reveal an uncharacteristically bright and cheerful summer outfit. "An aperitif is always a good idea. Suppose I can lay my hands on a bottle of wine or something..." Skinner wasn't sure he'd ever actually seen her out of a labcoat. She looked like an awkward 14-year-old now.

"Forget that. Have you ever tried Mori's homebrew?"

She gave him a beady eye, like it was a trick question, and waggled her head slightly. "Not as such."

"Okay, follow me." He took off his own labcoat and folded it onto the desk, making sure to theatrically loosen his tie afterwards. It wasn't like suddenly revealing a yellow check gingham jumper, but he thought he should at least keep up with Kael for now.

They made their way downstairs, ignoring and ignored by the other researchers, until they came to the test subject area on level 2. "Mori keeps his brewing operation down in the storage room. Calis made him move it not long before you started working here. After you." Skinner held the storage room door open for her and they were greeted with a blast of humid, stinking air.

"Christ, I can see why," she gritted through a hand over her face. "I'll stay right here if you don't mind."

Skinner nodded. "The still he built is quite an invention, but I understand."

He nipped into the storage room and made his way over to Mori's still. It was bubbling along on a batch, though Mori was nowhere to be seen. The operation was fairly efficient, though, and a rack nearby held several bottles of the homebrew. He grabbed one and retreated outside, closing the door behind him.

He proffered the bottle to Kael, who eyeballed the label. "Battle Brew?"

Skinner nodded. "Pretty potent stuff. Like chartreuse mixed with grain alcohol. An acquired taste for sure. You might want to have a sip and..."

Kael had already prized the lid off and taken an enormous swig. She gasped and stood there wavering for a moment like a pugilist awaiting the finishing blow. Her eyes were instantly bloodshot.

"It's not bad," she rasped. Skinner reached out to take it back but she clutched the bottle in the crook of her arm. "No. It's mine now."

Skinner chuckled. "Sure. Shall we?"

They made their way back upstairs and as they passed Calis' second desk Kael reached out and gave his steel wastebasket a kick, crumpling it like tin foil.

Right outside the lab was the cart stop, and waiting for them there was one of the carts, a sleek three-seat jobbie with a modified protectron in the driver's seat. And tail fins, for some reason.

"HELLO, MISTER... SKINNER AND MISSUS... KAEL. HOW MAY I ASSIST YOU TODAY?"

Skinner had already jumped in the back, but noticed that Kael was stock still, still clutching her "baby" and quivering with barely constrained fury.

"Missus? MISSUS! Protectron- SETIO, $ASSIGN NULL. Who programmed your honorific protocols?"

"SS$ NOPRIV. AD...MINISTRATIVE PROTOCOLS FOR... X-13 STAFF ARE PROVIDED BY DOCTOR... CALIS." As the robot answered it sounded like there was a tiny epileptic going hog with an angle grinder. Amazingly, Kael seemed to listening to the noises with a drunkenly cocked head.

"CONINTERR CANCEL, $INIDEV. Fine, you bucket of sprue. BREAK, COMKRNL SETSPACE MACRO 12."

The robot fell silent for a moment but Skinner was close enough to hear the core spinning up furiously.

"USERPARAM RESET, SS$ EXTERNAL MACROS OK. THANK YOU, DOCTOR... KAEL. ADMINISTRATIVE ACCESS HAS BEEN TRANSFERRED TO YOUR TOKEN, AND... REMOVED FROM DOCTOR... DING DONG. HOW MAY I ASSIST YOU TODAY."

"Take us to... X-17, please," Skinner said. "Kael, I'm going to need a drink of that."

She handed it back to him reluctantly as she sat in the cart, and he took a sip. "What's in X-17?"

Skinner chuckled before swiftly returning the bottle. "Not, what, but who. Well, there's some what as well but the who is more important."

"You never struck me as a philosophical type, Skinner." He made an exaggerated _who me_ gesture, and then slammed backwards into his seat as the protectron put its metal to the pedal.

It was always a pleasant drive on one of these cart trips, which was perhaps why they were inevitable discouraged by the high mucketies, and Skinner could recall a time when using a bicycle to travel between labs was made temprorarily mandatory. Temporarily, as of course one of the Think Tank docs got hold of it and suddenly quite a few of the researchers had been toodling about on "ergodynic velocitracks" powered by the latest in mini-fusion engines. God rest their souls.

As much as Kael chafed under the so-called leadership here at Big Mountain, Skinner did as well, but he was older, of course, and had learned to keep his head down to maintain employment and sanity. Not that he hadn't been fired from projects before once he got comfortable enough to scuttle the deal out of boredom. Maybe that's what was happening now.

He suddenly felt bad for Kael, and letting her nurse her Battle Brew, Skinner dug around in his jacket pocket for another flask. Where do they keep going?

The trip was a pleasant blur before long, and Skinner kept conversation to a minimum, letting Kael drift into what seemed to be an uncharacteristically wistful fugue. Before he knew it they had arrived at the unassuming front gate of the sprawling facility.

"Here we are, lady," slurred Skinner. "Uh… voila?"

Kael shot him a withering stare and tossed her now-empty bottle behind her, where it disintegrated against one of the roughly excavated artificial canyon walls. The broken glass added to the sparkle of the lightly flourescing hafnon crystals that protruded here and there. " _Voila, la-bas, allons y._ " Skinner lurched over and quickly opened the metal door of X-17.

He and Kael managed to stumble through the doorway with their arms around each other for support. The front office, normally a combination of dingy and brightly-lit, had the lights off, the doorway that led out to the main facility space was a torrent of light and noise. Kael goggled at it, until they were interrupted by an unexpected voice.

"Go on in, Skinner, and get your girlfriend a drink." Leaning back from the shadowy front desk, his feet up and the chair perilously close to tipping, was a sharp-featured man in a baggy labcoat, an open vodka bottle wedged in his crotch.

"Stow it, Jenkins."

"Jenkins, ehhh?" Kael purred and threw herself over the corner of the desk in what was presumably an attempt at sexy but barely qualified as ambulatory. She reached over and grabbed the neck of the vodka bottle. "Maybe you buy me a drink and I'll be _your_ girlfriend."

Skinner and Jenkins both stared open mouthed for a moment, when in an instant of alcohol-fueled anarchy Kael pitched Jenkins backwards onto the floor, and rolled herself back over the desk, now in possession of the bottle of vodka. "Shall we?"

"Let's."

They resumed their slow march into the main space, and were greeted by a startling transition to light and sound, and an only slightly less boozy breeze than that which had emerged from the Battle Brewery.

"A party, Skinner?" Kael was exercising that British mystery of sounding somewhere between slightly grateful and solidly disapproving. "Did you set this up for _moi_?"

He shook his head, finding that his neck was subject to vastly more momentum than when sober. "Well, no, but I didn't want you to miss it."

The party was something else. X-17 was a cavernous space of tanks for water and solvents, pipe and conduit carrying everything everywhere. There were all the catwalks they were used to at X-13, but these traced an orderly spider's web surrounding a central space, instead of overlaying the haphazard underground test chambers. Which had been designed by Calis, of course, something else to resent him for.

Atop one of the catwalks to the rear was a makeshift bandstand. Doc Boney, from Y-17, was leading his crew in a rendition of one of Dean Domino's neutered ballads, sharing vocals with a nurse, and judging by the looks they were giving each other, they'd be sharing more than that before long. Doc Boney's philandering was as legendary as his wife's anger over it was biblical. Skinner shook his head. "She's gonna kill you, Doc." It'd be a shame. Skinner was more of a hard bop aficionado, and never understood popular music. But the Doc did have some pipes.

The shifting lights of the party owed their random nature to the fact that some genius had installed strings of Christmas lights on the handful of Mr. Gutsy robots that patrolled the area. Pretty slick, Skinner thought.

He felt Kael disengage as she began to take in the true scale of what was going on in X-17. There was the usual contingent of suits and uniforms and their wives, pounding back whatever cocktail squares like that considered "classic" at the moment. Then there were plenty of technicians and the like who had managed to either escape their managers or been dragged to the shindig by them. Most of those lot were universally sloppy drunk as well.

Then there were the real libertines, most of which were the top scientists and engineers. Not surprising, really. Skinner thought the average onlooker would be forgiven for thinking they were at a stag party or some Satanic grand guignol ritual instead of an impromptu office gathering.

Kael was clearly fascinated by this part of it, and some of her razor-sharp focus had returned, though she was meticulously sipping at the vodka bottle still. When her gaze fell on one particular tableaux, Skinner had a momentary pang of conscience.

"Now who is that androgynous drink of water?" Skinner peeked where she was pointing.

In one corner of the space, dimly lit by what appeared to be red warming lamps, a boyish-looking woman with a short haircut lounged in a high-backed office chair like it was a throne. She was still in the crisp white Howie coat of a senior researcher, though the… courtiers surrounding her, man and woman alike, had on not a stitch. Doctor Amala. She stared at the nudes around her with a mixture of scientific curiosity and primal hunger.

Skinner found himself physically interposing his body between Kael and the scene, and while it did seem to break her out of her trance, she was now pissed.

"Look, I know I brought you out to have fun. But… uh, you probably haven't had a formal introduction to all the members of the Think Tank. But..."

"You're stammering, Skinner." Kael tapped her foot.

"Okay, I'm sorry. Listen, I'll tell you what my dad used to tell me in these situations. 'Never stick your dick in crazy.' And he was usually right."

"You're blushing, Skinner." She was right.

"How about I at least introduce you to the host before I turn you loose to get us all civilian-marshaled. Or whatever they'll do to us."

Kael leaned into his face. "That's tough. But fair. After you, my dear Skinner."

He led her up the stairs to the main catwalk section, towards the main lab that squatted midair like the shadowy spider who weaved the space full of catwalks. It was one of the hardest things Skinner had ever done, and he hoped it was as hard for Kael as she made it seem.

The control room was much as would be expected- boxy walls with alternating slabs of blinking control panels, viewing windows, and holographic displays. At the moment it appeared that every desk, chair, or piece of kit that wasn't nailed down had been pushed to the corners of the room, to make way for what appeared to be the world's slowest game of craps.

A handful of party-goers crouched around a single kneeling figure at the center of the room, limned in crazy rainbows by the holograms and _blinkenlights_. The man of the hour, the host with the most. He was a compact man of average height, with olive skin and curly gray hair. With his turtleneck and tweed blazer he could just come from teaching an ethics lecture, or simply be an off-duty mad scientist. Which he was.

"Dimitry!" Skinner was immediately shushed. The kneeling man didn't even look up- his gaze emerged from a relatively round face with terrifying intensity, and the object of his study were a pair of dice. The man remained motionless as a statue, but as Skinner stared as well, the dice were positively rattling in place. As he tried to figure out whether it was just the bass from the band, or a rattling pipe that made them move, the kneeling man stood, seemingly in an instant.

"It's not vibration, Skinner. This room is of course isolated. You don't think we suspend experimental protocols because of a… shindig? Dimitry Chayanov," he continued, proffering his hand to Kael. "It's an honor to finally meet you, Doctor Kael. I hope I have not caused you too much inconvenience lately."

"A pleasure. Inconvenience? I'm afraid I..."

"Skinner, you haven't informed our guest of the preexisting connection? For shame." He turned away for a moment to talk to another guest, a breathless young tech in a rubber apron, who held aloft a vial of mysterious fluid. It would have seemed brusque from anyone else.

"Here you are, sir. Enough of our neo-ciguatera to render an elephant sessile." The tech seemed ready to run already.

"Splendid, son. Thank you. I do hope it's… as _innovative_ as I asked."

Skinner turned back to Kael.

"So Dimitry used to be… you. Lead researcher at X-13, I mean. And a perennial thorn in Dr. Calis' side. Not long before you started he engaged in a campaign of terror that would have gotten anyone else fired, but instead they gave him his own facility." Kael again loosed a quizzical English look, seemingly both impressed and disgusted.

"I see. Humph!"

Chayanov reappeared suddenly in the conversation. "I prefer to think of it as a… pogrom of progress. Your genius is a much better fit on that project, Doctor. I only hope the philistines give you less trouble than they gave me."

"Perhaps you'd give me an abstract on what's happening with the dice, then?"

"Dimitry thinks taking chems gives him psychic powers." Skinner noticed the withering look Chayanov was giving him. "The sample size isn't the best, but, uh… he seems to be right. Not that I understand what using telepathy to cheat at dice or read minds has to do with meteorology."

Chayanov produced a nondescript green glass pill bottle and hucked it at Kael, who caught it with very little trouble. "You lack imagination, Skinner. Dice are low-hanging fruit. Work for interns. Perhaps Doctor Kael would enjoy seeing the true purpose of my experimental efforts? Allow me to demonstrate. And please enjoy those psychotropics at your leisure."

Skinner and Kael bunched together in shared scientific terror of what demonstration might be coming, but followed Chayanov's beckoning hand as he moved over to one of the viewing windows.

" _LADIES_ ," he shouted down at the gathering, and immediately a dozen or so women began to congregate on the platform below them, some disengaging themselves from the suit-and-boot crowd, some appearing from who knew where.

The platform lay beneath the central apparatus of the facility, an enormous battery of electrodes and instruments, while the platform itself held a scale model of Higgs Village, the enclosed neighborhood where the Think Tank lived. The ladies Chayanov had summoned milled about the tiny houses and streets. Skinner noticed they were uniformly wearing white blouses and shirts.

"Dimitry, are you-"

"Shh! Behold… my true power!" Chayanov laughed deeply, a low raspy thing that seemed to emerge from below his vocal chords. He stood stock still again, staring with even greater intensity at an instrument panel near him. The panel held only a curious antenna and a red indicator light.

Tense moments passed. Chayanov strained silently, until at last, the light turned on. And with it all hell broke loose. It was raining on the platform. Not sprinklers, not drips from pipes- rain. The ladies below screamed in surprise and glee as the cold water hit them and their white blouses with predictable results.

"Marvelous," breathed Kael. Skinner could only nod.

"I am pleased you find it acceptable, Doctor. Ah," he said as he leaned under the table and withdrew a utilitarian duffel bag. As he hastily zipped it, Skinner and Kael got a quick glance of its contents. Rubber phalluses of all shapes and sizes. Almost without warning Chayanov hurled the bag through the open viewing window onto the platform. "Don't forget your toys, ladies."

"Marvelous," repeated Kael. Chayanov clapped her on the shoulder in a very manly gesture of respect.

"Do make sure our guest remains suitably entertained, Skinner." Skinner could still only nod.

And with that Chayanov disappeared again.

Skinner turned back to Kael as she tossed back some of the chems Dimitry had given her. She held the open bottle out to him.

"For our mental health, Skinner?"

Skinner had managed to curl up in a somewhat seated position up against the elevator terminal on the roof of X-17. He wasn't 100% sure exactly how long it had been. The party was still going downstairs, he could hear that, noises of debauchery drifting tinnily through a nearby ventilation shaft. The squares had surely all gone home, though knowing how many technicians and interns wanted a chance at attendance, he was sure a graveyard shift had replenished the numbers. The last he'd seen Dimitry, the elder scientist had been ignoring the orgy around him, gripping a novelty snowglobe and shaking it repeatedly, muttering about "sensitivity to initial conditions."

Exactly how long it had been since he took just one of those chems? He had no clue. He was still fucking _rolling._

The elevator door opened with a thump and Kael drifted out slowly, limping. She had wrapped herself in what looked like one of those silver foil survival blankets.

"May I?"

Skinner nodded and she sat down slowly next to him, and spread the space blanket out to cover them both. She was naked underneath, and he honestly didn't even care.

"I'm sorry, Kael. I don't want you to think I did this to make any sort of point or something. You're really a good friend to me. Just suppose I wanted to feel like more than just some lab drone for a while."

"You do know how to show a lady a good time, Skinner. What were you doing up here?"

"Fresh air?" He smiled feebly. He knew he was rank, and she was no lavender sachet herself. "Fake stars, actually. I mean, you knew we were underground, but… why fake stars on the cavern roof? Why a fake sky for 'daytime'?"

"Knowing our colleagues," she snorted, "they'll have blown the roof off this place before long. You'll get a good view of the sky then."

"Well, here's hoping. I'm… just going to rest my eyes for a minute." He laid his head down into Kael's bony shoulder and closed his eyes.

"You do that, Skinner. You do that."


	7. Mormon Fort

Singh had seen some shit, of course- between growing up in outer Vegas and making a living as a hired gun since just around the time his beard came in. Not that he had the same experience a lot of poor suckers did. Singh grew up in a huge, loving family that ran a small trading post just outside of Nipton. Dry goods, scrap, and building supplies, none of the funny stuff that attracted a shady clientele. Sure, if you had an ammo box full of jet then Singh's family store would take it off your hands and give you a huge sack of beans, but they wouldn't resell the chems to whoever wandered by.

That sort of stuff made its way to an itinerant Followers medic who popped by on his rounds to take any chems in trade for medical supplies or some of their good genetically modified seeds. A "triangle trade" Singh had heard it called. That medic became leader of the Followers outpost in Vegas proper, but continued his rounds out of both duty and friendship. He'd known Singh's family so long he'd gone from "Sir" to "Doc Forrester" to "Uncle."

It had all ended, of course. Things changed pretty quick in the Mojave. Singh's parents got older, his elder brothers and sisters moved on or died, and when the store got blown up in the crossfire between a couple of gangs- Fiends, Vipers, Jackals, he hadn't been able to keep track when he was that young- there was no means to rebuild. Between the NCR Outpost and the various corrupt businesses run by Nipton's mayor, there wasn't really any room for a mom-and-pop shop anyway.

Singh had been a teenager at the time, and already working mercenary gigs, so he'd saved up enough money to put his parents in a little apartment in Westside, where they made patent medicines little woven rugs to sell at the co-op. His mom passed and luckily Singh had been home to help. It wasn't until his dad was on his deathbed that Singh had even heard him mention the old ways.

The family had been part of some prewar religion that had shed its trappings bit by bit over the years. Singh's grandpa was the last to really be serious about it- the turban, leggings, and sacred knife. The whole bit. Singh's mom had always encouraged her husband to keep up with his father's wishes but that's not how it played out. At least until the end, and he began to curse a secular way of life.

Singh never thought of himself as a warrior of faith, as a lion or tiger. Just a dude trying to get by. He'd felt a little aimless since he'd been alone, and work helped, but eventually wandering lost its luster and he'd come back to where he'd grown up. Nipton was a no-go but the family had always felt most at home in Vegas anyway. Freelancing at first- some armbreaking here and there to make sure people remembered he meant business and that with cash in hand he'd do whatever needed done. Singh never hurt anyone unnecessarily, of course, and he put in pro bono work whenever possible. If a couple brass jerks cornered a girl in a Freeside alley, then one of them would end up as gibs in a dumpster and the other would at least be alive to tell the tale. And if their buddies came back with three or more against one… well, that was dirty pool and there'd be gibs every damn where. Singh wasn't a bad guy, but he wasn't a nice guy either.

Once he'd shored up his rep. he'd ignored the various recruitment efforts of everyone from the King to the Van Graffs to the fucking NCR by way of some pencil-pushing ambassador. Singh had one destination in mind and plunked himself right at the gates of the Old Mormon Fort. The guards on duty- a couple mercs he half recognized and a ghoul lady he didn't- let him in but things got complicated when he asked to see the bossman. He was directed to one of the guardhouses that buttressed the corners of the fort proper, past a sandbag wall and tents and straggling sick folks.

Inside the tower was a small but well-appointed infirmary. Behind a screen some obscured Follower was treating an insensate person on a gurney. A clear voice greeted him. "Have a seat upstairs, please. I'll be right up."

Singh complied and found himself in a cramped space that must have been a duty room for when this place needed actual tower guards. He plunked himself down in a battered office chair at an equally battered bookshelf. A bed and filing cabinets, a desk and a silent terminal, and someone's personal effects were all that the space held. No- not quite. On the top of the shelf was a prewar trinket of some kind- a glass globe with some comic character in front of a crude rendering of the Fort. As Singh picked it up small white bits swarmed through the water inside the globe. A tiny snowstorm? He wondered when the last time was the Fort saw snow. And when the last time was that it had been white.

He hardly had time to get bored when footsteps on the stairs were followed by the figure of a Followers doctor, a surprisingly tall woman with a rigid crest of spiked hair that made her seem even taller. She was pretty in a serious sort of way but allowed a genuine smile when Singh stood up to shake her hand.

"Hi there. Julie Farkas. I'm what passes for in charge here."

"Singh." She sat down by the desk and scooted over to him as he sat back down. She looked almost embarrassed.

"We know."

"So… no Doc Forrester?"

"Jonathan- Doctor Forrester- was my mentor. The Mojave was getting a bit rough for him, so he retired back to the Boneyard. A cushy teaching position at the university." Singh nodded warily, "What can I help you with, Singh?"

"I'm here to pay a debt, I suppose. Offer my services. I doubt he mentioned it, but-"

"That you've known him since childhood? A close family friend?"

"Uncle Jon. He was family, yes. I don't think we'd have made it without him. He made things… comfortable for my mom at the end. I'd hoped he would be there for my dad as well. I tried to get word to him but he never showed."

"Doctor Forrester touched a lot of peoples' hearts over the years." Singh kept a poker face but conspicuously folded his arms over his chest. "I'm sorry, Singh. I didn't mean to minimize your relationship. Just thinking about how I miss him as well. He actually wrote about you, in a letter he gave me when I took over the operation here."

"Is that so?"

"He was in Utah when your father passed, and when your message arrived we were in the midst of a crisis. By the time things calmed down and he returned, you were gone as well. I am so sorry."

Singh relaxed a little, leaning back into his chair, and realized he was crying.

"Did he… did he mention my promise?"

"He did. I wasn't going to bring it up until you did. Most hired guns aren't quite as comfortable with their emotions as you are. Probably one of the reasons Jonathan spoke so highly of you."

"Then put me to work. Doesn't have to be glamorous. I don't need to be the gunslinger hero I said I would be when I was a little boy. I'll sleep on the ground. And caps aren't even an issue. But I owe him. And I owe all of you."

Julie Farkas' look of genuine compassion took on a slightly pinched look. "Well, there are plenty of caravans to the Boneyard. I'm sure Doctor Forrester would love to see you."

"No, no… Vegas is my home. I know he cared about the people here. I do too. Let me help you."

She nodded, clearly taking a moment to pick her words. "There is plenty of work to be done, sure. I won't have to tell you that Freeside has its share of troubles. And your passion and talents are undeniable."

"But?" Singh wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

"People are afraid of you, Singh. I'd put you on security detail in place of a dozen of the people I have working here, but I want the citizens of Freeside and outer Vegas to come here when they need help, without hesitation. Do you understand what I'm trying to express?"

"Sure. Sure. I won't apologize for my career. I've tried to live cleanly and protect people, but… I've put a lot of bullets in a lot of heads." Singh shrugged and rose to leave.

"Wait, Singh. I didn't mean to offend you. Jonathan told me that even as a child you were a fighter. He hoped you might have picked up a stethoscope at some point, but… well." She affected a much more open smile now and Singh waited to see what she had to say. "I do need help with something. We need help. It's a bit more complicated than the usual vicissitudes of Freeside, and I think you are the right person for the job."

"What is it? Just point me in the right direction."

Julie rose as well and moved to her desk, shuffling some papers before finding a worn key, which she handed to him.

"You may know that we maintain a safe house for our doctors and workers, over in the hills. A place to rest, resupply, and lay low for Followers coming and going through the Vegas area.

He hadn't known that. Guess you had to really be trusted by the Followers to be in the know.

"I'm with you so far. What's going on?"

"One of our doctors- not a medical doctor, so not as needed in Freeside all the time- visits the safe house every couple of days to keep it clean and keep the supplies stocked. She has been reporting being watched recently as she visits. And a small encampment of raiders has sprung up not too far away."

"Probably connected, I'd guess."

"She's not the flighty type, and I can tell she's genuinely frightened."

"Well, I'd want it checked out if I were in your shoes." Singh rubbed his hands together. "You can't take a piss in Freeside without a rumor starting, so I'll storm out of here when we're done. I doubt anyone will put two and two together."

"Singh, I can't tell you what a relief it is how accommodating you're being."

He stood and shrugged. "It's fine. I'll check it out for you. Nice meeting you, Julie."

"The same, Singh. I'll show you out."

They walked down the stairs and as Singh touched the door handle he paused.

"Not that I'm going to spill to anyone, but I just wanted to be clear about something."

She looked truly concerned suddenly but she had almost as good a poker face as he did. "Yes?"

"You didn't exactly give me any directions as to what you want done. I'm going to investigate this, and if it's a problem- which I'm sure it will be- I'm going to deal with it. Just so you know."

He turned without waiting for a response and made his way out of the door and out of the Fort.

Singh didn't normally run around armored- despite what some people would have you think it was unnecessary, and hot and disgusting. You needed two lunches on a day when you wore heavy armor. That sort of thing. But on a working day, that was a different matter. Back at his little flat, which he left guarded by one of the street urchins in his building, he got kitted out. Singh had built himself a custom suit of armor, thick leather with ballistic plates, At the joints was a sandwich of materials of his own devising that was a reasonable combination of tough, flexible, and breathable. Over this he threw the shittiest-looking poncho he'd been able to find.

In a fragment of some old holotape film he'd watched as a kid, the gunslinger hero won a fight against a faster opponent by hiding a metal breastplate underneath his baggy poncho. Thinking the hero was dead, the baddie wasn't prepared for the return shot.

Singh was no gunslinger hero. He knew that, and it wasn't just posturing for Julie Farkas. But it was a good idea. A dude in _nice_ armor stuck out like a sore thumb, but dudes in scroungy desert gear were a dime a dozen.

Otherwise he packed light, figuring this would be a short engagement, even if it weren't easy. Machete, pistol, light SMG all went under the poncho and over it he slung his battered old rifle. This was a custom job like the armor- he'd re-chambered it in a huge and unnecessary caliber, put a really fantastic scope on it, etc, and then painted the whole thing to make it look as shitty as possible.

That was another nod to the heroes of old. No holotape this time, but he'd been told the legend of Carlos Hatchback, a sniper of such supernatural ability that he'd attached a scope to .50 cal mounted machine gun with wonderglue and a prayer, and made a head shot on some enemy goon from 5 miles away,

That was probably bullshit but Singh couldn't deny the effect when an enemy thought you were going to plink-plink at them and instead you went BOOOOM.

Apart from that, Singh grabbed a ditty bag full of useful stuff and headed out in the general direction of the safe house, munching a moderately stale piece of cornbread.

This safe house was pretty much a cunthair north of due west from outer Vegas, where the 167 went off into the mountains towards a whole lot of nothing. Singh couldn't even see it yet, though his hasty orienteering put him at just about there.

It was already just about evening, like he had planned, and while there might be the odd gecko waiting to snack on travelers, and of course mysterious watchers and bandits, he plunked himself down an made a wee fire.

Singh waited until night fell, and sure enough, slightly to the south was the telltale barrel fire of some marauding Fiends. They didn't normally make it this far outside of the ruins they'd pretty thoroughly conquered, but with enough chems he was sure they could make it anywhere. He wasn't concerned about scaring them off, which could happen in a pinch later.

The thing that did catch in his mind, though, was that the Fiends were loud and sloppy and not likely to set sentries. So who had been watching the Doctor so intently and unseen?

Singh let the fire die down as the evening wore on, and ate another quick bite from his ditty bag. Just to keep up appearances. As his night vision began to return he turned towards the general direction of the safe house and took in the scene.

A whole lot of nothing. At least until-

"Shit," he let slip as he dropped to the ground and rolled away from the fire. There'd been the glint of a goddamn scope.

Singh waited for a shot that didn't come, not moving at all. When it still didn't come he waited some more, so motionless and quiet that he could hear the noise of the Fiends partying as it drifted over the wind. Maybe he'd imagined it? The eyes could play tricks on just about anyone. Singh slowly worked his rifle over his shoulder and even more slowly brought it to bear and put his eye to the scope.

He almost swore again, as for a moment there was a figure in his sights, in some sort of weird combat armor. Just as soon as it appeared, it disappeared no matter which way Singh swung the rifle. "What… the fuck."

Alright then. Singh stayed in as comfortable a spot as he could until he felt it was safe, then crept off back to Vegas.

That morning he was back at the Fort, and he didn't even bother to ask to come in, instead handing the guard a sealed note addressed "YOU ABSOLUTE BITCH" and told the guard to either give it to Julie Farkas or shove it up his ass. Singh turned on his heel and stomped off, just barely concealing a grin.

He liked this skulduggery stuff. It was not his usual thing but it was fun. Maybe he should have read _¡La Phantoma!_ Like his sisters did.

The note was brief, and rude, but he somehow managed to mention both a group of fiends, who he suggested might take her dog and eat it, and a mysterious soldier type who he hoped took her mother to the Monte Carlo Suites for a honeymoon. With some extra cursing besides.

He'd signed it Singh, but he dotted the I with a little heart so hopefully she understood what was going on.

Singh knew that all he would have to do now was wait, so he wandered down to Freeside to the Wrangler, in order to get lightly hammered. Something about this just plain stank.

He'd spent a pleasant morning bullshitting with the regulars and being studiously ignored by the Garrett twins, for whatever reason. Before too long he heard the door swing open and he swung around on his stool to meet the urgent newcomer. It was one of the Kings.

"Hey," said the young dude in his pompadour and leather jacket. "You're the guy who's been helping the Followers, right? Julie Farkas wanted you to have this." Singh frowned at the waste of a good skulduggery but accepted the note from the King, who beat feet almost before the paper left his hand.

The note was simple and to the point, which seemed to fly in the face of the discretion Julie Farkas had wanted.

It wasn't the response he'd expected. Julie didn't know anything about mysterious soldiers, though she admitted that they had contacts far and wide and presumably enemies as well. As far as the bandits were concerned, the immediate problem was that Doctor Luria had been expected to check in at the nearby Followers outpost this very morning, but hadn't. She suspected the worst.

Singh did as well, and he knew that there was no need for any further communication. He had to get his ass to the safe house.

You could only get there so fast, but Singh took the opportunity to indulge in a chaw of some coyote tobacco, sobering up during his long walk. Chems were bad, he'd always believed that. But he felt that medicinal plants grew for a reason.

As he approached the safe house he had a feeling that things had gone awry exactly as he'd thought. A crushed jet inhaler and a ragged boot that someone had lost along with a lot of blood. Trouble.

Singh pulled out his SMG and approached the door quietly- no sentries, as he expected, but from inside the safe house he could hear the sounds of a struggle, muffled though they were by the thick front door. He crouched in front of it and as smoothly as he could slid the old worn key in and twisted the handle.

Then he went to work.

Singh threw open the door and did a quick hop into the room. You didn't need to be a detective to see what had happened here. Five fiends and a blonde woman in a Followers lab coat. Three fiends on the ground, dead or bleeding out. Two still standing, wrestling with Doctor Luria, who was busy trying to stab the ever-living shit out of them with a quite significant combat knife. No damsel in distress there.

In a fraction of an instant the distress was there, though. The three combatants froze for a second with Singh's entry, but one of the fiends managed to disengage from the fracas and went for the shitty pipe revolver at her belt. Singh didn't give her a chance to use it, and she went down with one burst from the SMG.

He snapped the barrel towards the other fiend, but Doctor Luria had her knife embedded in his gut, and she withdrew it to quickly jab him a few more times in the neck and face, before they both fell to the ground. Luria screamed and promptly puked.

It wasn't first kill jitters, either. Her less stabby arm was completely snapped.

Singh ignored her, as hard as it was, and quickly made his way through the rest of the safe house's interior, looking for Fiends and luckily finding none. Then he ran back to the Doctor and knelt down to give her medical attention.

"Hey, you okay? Anything other than this arm?"

Through gritted teeth she waved vaguely behind her. "Dark gray cabinet, top left. Med-X. Then chit-chat."

Singh knew not to be offended and busted ass over to the cabinet and found a handful of ampules for the Doc, then went right back. He snapped the tip on one and jabbed it into her leg, and threw the rest in a pocket.

She pounded the ground with the palm of her good hand and then her body relaxed somewhat. "Give me a- a second." Singh nodded and looked around from his crouch. Nothing special about these fiends. None of them in serious armor. One of them was missing a boot and a large chunk of his leg. _Do no harm_ , he thought.

Once Doctor Luria was good and fuzzy, but not completely out of her mind, Singh decided to get the story out of her. His instincts weren't far off- the Fiends had wandered too close to the safe house, and seeing someone in a lab coat assumed correctly that chems weren't too far away. They hadn't figured on robbing someone with Doctor Luria's skill set. Singh had gotten a thumbnail of her life story before she started rambling from the Med-x. She'd been a combat medic with the NCR before training as a veterinarian and becoming a Follower.

The poor Fiends hadn't even gotten to the chems before Luria had slaughtered them, with his help of course.

Luckily for the Doc she had been attacked somewhere that was chock full of medical equipment. As Singh fastened a metal and leather brace to fit her arm's current completely fucked up shape, he ignored her occasional chuckles and started to worry about the walk home.

"Doc, I know you would probably rather just take a nap here and eat all the potato crisps, but Vegas isn't going to come to us. You think you can walk if I support you?"

Luria scoffed and tried to stand up on her own. Singh helped her anyway. "Let's go, then-" She peered intently into Singh's face. "Pumpkin." Singh grabbed his SMG from the floor and hung it loosely at his belt. This wasn't going to be optimal but they had to get going.

Singh and Doctor Luria shuffled slowly out the door of the safe house and they had barely gotten a meter before the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he looked behind him.

The safe house door was set back into the roughly hewn face of a rocky outcrop, which worked wonders for protection and camouflage. Standing on top of that outcrop, close enough to spit at, was the mystery soldier.

The figure was clad in what at first appeared to be the armor of those scary veteran Rangers the NCR occasionally trotted out. This wasn't a dirty black, though. It was a dark army green, with white piping and stars, and more significant armor plating, including some imposing epaulets. The figure's face was covered by a helmet with faintly glowing eye lenses. Their hand slowly came to rest at a gunbelt on their waist that held a huge old-timey revolver.

"Shit," muttered Luria as she too noticed the figure. Singh was used to tight spots like this but was honestly terrified. This was no Freeside junkie running up with a pipe wrench to try to steal a few caps before getting beat down. Hell, this wasn't even an NCR press gang or Omerta sniper. Singh didn't know what the fuck this all was.

As gently as possible, Singh pushed the Doc down onto a low boulder to the side. She made a noise of complaint but that was the least of his worries. The figure had moved its hand from the butt of the revolver to hover slightly in the air above it.

Singh had never been in an honest to goodness duel before. But he'd practiced for it. Hours and hours as a kid. And of course in secret as an adult, with a real gun. A quick draw was a good thing to have, and he knew that his was about as good as it got. Just never had the chance to prove it.

Singh adjusted his body slightly, presenting a smaller target to the soldier, and also so that Luria wasn't in the line of fire. The soldier didn't bother- stupid, Singh thought. Overconfident, maybe. Well, he'd rather be underestimated than dead.

After he was situated, a process that had taken a couple seconds that felt like hours, he waited.

Singh supposed this was no different than those strange timeless moments before any altercation, but in some strange way he felt like he had been waiting for this mysterious stranger to draw his whole life.

Then it was time. The soldier's hand started to descend and he let his do the same. A brief surge of confidence filled Singh as he knew he was going to be faster than he'd ever been. He'd timed it, of course, with the same instinct as men who measure their dicks with a ruler, and he knew that the timescale these quickdraws happened on wasn't measured with a stopwatch. Singh's palm landed against the grip of his own pistol, and then-

The figure had already drawn down on him before he'd even lifted his piece out of its holster. _Great_ , Singh thought, _I'm dead_. Then he noticed that the soldier wasn't holding a gun. They were pointing their finger at him, with a cocked thumb. Finger guns.

In a blaze of humiliation and anger Singh went ahead with his draw, but before he could bring his revolver to bear the soldier had changed their mind, and gone ahead with their own draw. Singh was now staring at the deep hole in the barrel of that beautiful old revolver.

The soldier shook its helmeted head at him, mockingly, then put their piece back in its holster.

Singh did the same. "What the fuck, man? What the fuck is your game?"

The soldier said nothing, and might as well have been a statue. He remembered Luria suddenly when she began to softly chuckle. This must be his chance.

Not really expecting a bullet in the back, but not sure, Singh turned and helped the Doc up. Taking one last look at the figure, he could tell they were just watching. Then he turned to go.

By the time they'd gotten back to outer Vegas, just outside the Clinic, Luria's dose of Med-x had worn off and she was not a happy camper. In between flurries of cursing, Singh had looked her straight in the eyes. "I don't know if you're going to remember any of this, but maybe the less we say about phantom gunslingers, the better." She nodded with her face contorted around a really solid bout of teeth gritting and they walked into the clinic.

It was just a quick stop for him, literally dropping Luria into Doctor Usanagi's arms with only the briefest of explanations. Then he was off to the Mormon Fort.

Where he found Julie Farkas waiting for him, flanked by all the Followers and guards just inside the gate.

"Singh!" He really had trouble reading her, but it wasn't good.

"Julie. Why the welcome wagon? Figured you'd want a quiet debrief on what went down."

"I got word from Usanagi at the Clinic. She wanted to pass on how grateful she was for you saving Doctor Luria, who passed on all the details about what happened at the safe house."

"All the details, huh?"

"How you took out an entire pack of Fiends right before they would have killed her. Or worse. And the way you slaughtered them… well, I doubt any of the gangs will wander near the safe house any time soon. But there's good news. And bad news."

Singh knuckled his forehead in frustration, and realized he was caked in dust and sweat from the long haul with Luria.

"Yes, the way I slaughtered them. I'll… take the bad news first."

"Singh, you're a hero. And you have to leave. People were afraid of you before, and now… this sort of violence is not what the Followers stand for. Even though it saved one of us."

"I see." He wasn't going to cry in front of her again, and definitely not in front of these tools.

"The good news is," she said as she pointed at a studious looking Follower technician to her left. "Emily here managed to get a message through the terminal network, and we've heard from Doctor Forrester. He's asked for you to come join him in the Boneyard. There's a Crimson Caravan group headed that way tomorrow morning." She forced a smile but Singh could tell she was bothered by the whole thing.

"I… sure. That's probably for the best." Singh was too tired and wired to truly be embarrassed by whatever the hell it was that was happening.

Julie Farkas stepped up close to Singh and leaned down. At first he thought she was going in for a Judas kiss, but instead she pressed her lips to his ear. "I really am sorry, Singh. And your friend paid us a visit. She said the Followers are under her protection now. And not to worry."

 _She?_ Singh was completely confused. He nodded weakly and trudged back out as one of the guards held the gate for him. _She?_

Singh was apparently leaving Vegas in the morning, which he could wrap his head around, even if the rest of it was a total cipher. And that bothered him. Maybe he'd look for answers down south. Find religion. Dig his grandpa's turban and such out of that old footlocker. Why not. He could manage. But…

 _She?_


End file.
